


limerence, infatuation, and the hook that drags you under

by pieandsouffle



Category: Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Simon narrating, Getting Together, Love Simon Spoilers, M/M, Swearing, drunk makeouts, f-bombs dotting this fic, halloween party au, teenagers being drunk, the Halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 22:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14459589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieandsouffle/pseuds/pieandsouffle
Summary: Bram stands there, smiling down at me, and I know that this is the moment. This is the moment I'll know.I'm going to say it."Hey, I'm me, Bajacquarack."I don't say it.





	limerence, infatuation, and the hook that drags you under

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the movie! I'm not actually happy with this at all, but I needed to get it out of my system.

The mirror is not nearly good enough practice for Bram.

“He — e— e—ey,” I say to the mirror. It’s not enough. I waggle finger-guns at it. “Bram, it’s me, Jacques.”

The mirror remains unconvinced. Maybe it was the finger-guns? Were they too casual for a romantic epiphany? Should I be serious? Like, super-serious? But it’s really _hard_ to be super-serious when you’re half-dressed as John Lennon. Maybe I should embrace the John Lennon? Stick my wig back on?

I don’t know where my wig is.

I can’t pretend to be John Lennon if I don’t have a wig! I’ll just look like a stoner! A stoner in a white suit, and when has a stoner ever looked cool?

I mean, John Lennon was cool, but no one can be as cool as John Lennon.

I might even just end up looking like Fancy Jesus, which is worse.

And Blue never said he was into John Lennon. And he’s Jewish, so he’s _definitely_ not into Jesus. Or maybe. I don’t know.

But he’s definitely into _me._

 _“_ Hey Bram,” I try again, a lot quieter this time. “ _I’m_ Jacques.”

The mirror is not particularly impressed. I agree; it’s not right. That’s not the right way to say it, and it _has_ to be said the right way or it won’t be perfect, and I _really_ want it to be perfect. But it won’t be absolutely perfect, it can’t be, because I’m at a house party and I’m pretty sure someone threw up in the bath behind me but I can’t screw up the courage to look. And there’s no sunshine, and we won’t be under a fucking rainbow, which is stupid and sappy but a really, really nice idea and disappointment hits me that it won’t happen like that.

I narrow my eyes and stare harder into the mirror. Maybe my mouth is the problem here and not my drunk brain. My tongue is being a little _bitch_ and refuses to cooperate on the greatest night of my life. _Hey Nick, I love black women. Not that I have a thing for black women but I just — I just love **all** women_ **.** Yeah. Fucking nice move, Simon’s tongue. It keeps running over my teeth, which feel kinda fuzzy from all the alcohol. It’s like I’m camping and forgot my toothbrush and just brushed my teeth by wiping them on my T-shirt but it’s not enough and my mouth still feels gross but now, at least, there’s drool on my shirt.

But it’s not as bad as it could be. My mouth tastes like vodka and orange soda, which is gross but not as gross as beer which is, really, incredibly gross.

“Hey … Barack! It’s me, Jacques!”

The mirror gives me a withering look.

“Well what the fuck do _you_ think I should say?”

The mirror tells me, in not uncertain terms, where exactly I can stick my attitude.

I guess there’s just no way for ‘Jacques’ to ever sound cool. It’s like trying to make ‘Bert’ the dashing hero of a novel.

It doesn’t work.

‘Cause it sucks.

Why did I pick a name that _sucks._

 _“_ Why did I choose Jacques?” I say.

 _Because you’re a fucking idiot_ , the mirror says helpfully.

“Fuck you,” I tell it.

_Fuck you too, Spier._

“Well, I’m gonna go tell Bram,” I tell the mirror snidely. “You can just stay here and be bitter. Just what I’d expect from a mirror.”

 _Just remember that I had no faith in you when inevitably **fuck this up**_ , the mirror says back, just as snidely. This kind of lack of support is not astounding. Just what you’d expect from a reflection. Disgusting.

I take a deep breath, flip off the mirror, and open the bathroom door. I am immediately assailed by an even stronger smell of puke.

“Hey,” says a girl in a yellow shirt with a bucket clamped to her chest.

“Hi,” I reply. “What are you doing?”

She looks at me woozily, and her gaze drops to the bucket.

“Just throwing up,” she says eventually.

“That’s — great.”

“Is it?”

“No. Have you seen Blue?”

“Like … the colour?”

“No, like — ”

Fuck. That’s not his name.

“Bram! Have you seen Bram?”

“Bram?”

“Bram.”

“Bram?”

At least I won’t forget his name again. I can’t believe I forgot. Or forgot that Blue doesn’t necessarily come attached to Bram. He’s all I can think about, and yet his stupid cute name detached itself from Cute Bram and instead his other cute name was the first thing my dumb brain though of.

“Yes. Bram.”

It’s a nice name to say.

She blinks a few times and sways. I don’t see how she can sway, she’s leaning against a wall. Then my shoulder hits the wall too, and _I’m_ the one who’s swaying.

“Karaoke?” she suggest, her face all screwed up in thought.

“Karaoke.”

“Karaoke.”

“Karaoke?”

“Karaoke.”

We’re just asking the question back and forth. I’m off my fucking face and I know we sound stupid.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you a minion?”

“Ya.”

“Why?”

She’s too busy throwing up to say anything else.

I stumble my way towards the living room. The stairs are a nasty obstacle to climb down, but I somehow make it without concussing myself. The way through the kitchen is another quest altogether, and there’s someone lying on the floor in the doorway. My knees are too wobbly. I can’t climb over them. I don’t know if my heel can leave the ground without my head replacing it on the floor.

The living room is such a long way away. And I can’t see Bram in there anyway.

You’re a fucking disaster, Spier.

It’s really loud, too.

It was loud before and it isn’t actually any louder now but it _feels_ louder. It feels overwhelming. And that counts, doesn’t it?

Maybe it’s ‘cause when it was loud before, I was with Bram. Being loud with Cute Bram Greenfeld. It was a fucking great duet.

I wonder if he liked it as much as I did.

Then something grabs my shoulder, and I look up, and it’s Cute Bram himself.

“Hey Simon!!” he yells, slopping something out of his cup.

“Hi!!” I shout back.

He’s grinning really wide. This is a good time to do it. I _should_ do it. It’s him, it’s him, I’m sure it’s him. He’s been flirting all night. It’s gotta be him.

Cute Bram Greenfeld is smiling at me, and I say it.

“Hey, I’m me, Bajacquarack.”

 

I don’t say it.

Bram’s eyebrows scrunch together, and it’s so cute and it should be all I can focus on but a chunk of my brain is keeping me from falling over, the second chunk is screaming, and the third stopping me from punching myself in the face.

“Sorry?”

“ _I’m_ Barack.”

Oh my god. One more try.

“Jam, it’s me — ”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck —

“Too loud!” Bram shouts. He grabs my hand and _god_ , I’m actually trembling. Thank fuck he just couldn’t hear what I was saying. “Let’s go somewhere quieter!”

My tongue is a traitorous piece of shit that clearly can’t be trusted, so I don’t say anything else. I just nod, and I’m not sure if Bram can see me nodding, so I just keep doing it. And then I’m in a room of the house I’ve never been in, and I’m still nodding. I don’t think anyone’s been in this room. No one’s passed out on the floor and it’s puke-free.

It’s a lot quieter, but my brain is a lot louder.

“What were you trying to say?” Bram asks.

I’m in a room alone with Bram, and the door is closed behind me. I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid why am I doing this again? The mirror was right! I’m not brave enough to do this! My mouth isn’t working and —

And there’s a red solo cup in my hand I don’t remember putting there. It’s full. Did I have it before? Did I have it in the bathroom?

The thing in my other hand though. I didn’t have that in the bathroom.

Bram’s hand is really soft.

I drink the whole cup.

Liquid courage, right?

Liquid stupidity, more like.

“Whoa, Si!” Bram says, laughing. “Nick said you dindrink. Didn’t drink. He said you don’t drink.”

“I can drink,” I argue. “I had a _whole_ bottle of — of — water. Once.”

This is the funniest thing I’ve ever said in my life, and Bram seems to think so too, because he starts laughing and doesn’t stop for a long time. Which is a problem because him laughing makes me laugh, and then we’re trapped in a vicious circle of hysterics and we can’t stop. But we have to breathe at some point, and when we do, Bram’s still holding my hand.

“What — uh — you were gonna say something? In the kitchen. About — about jam …?”

“Jam?”

“Like jelly, right? But fancy? But English?”

“I wasn’t gonna talk about jelly,” I manage. My face is so fucking red. I’m spinning. The room’s all blurry, but Bram isn’t. Maybe he’s spinning too. I slump backwards, and my shoulders hit the back of the door.

“Then — ”

“I wasn’t. Seesriously. Serioushly. Seriously.” Third time lucky.

“I was gonna say — ” and then we laugh again.

“Jelly sucks,” Bram says once we’ve calmed down.

“Jelly’s _great_ ,” I say. “The — the blue one’s the best. The _blue_ one.” I say again, meaningfully.

It’s a test. Trust Drunky McDrunkbutt Simon the make a stupid subtle test when he could just _tell_ Bram.

Something flickers in Bram’s eyes.

I think it’s recognition.

Maybe they’re just watering from residual puke smell.

 _Just say it, Simon,_ I hear the mirror sigh.

“I’m — I’m — ”

“Simon?”

“I’m — ” and I stop, ‘cause Bram is looking at my mouth.

I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. He’s just looking at it, but my heart’s abseiling its way into my throat. Abseiling? Is that right? I don’t know. Blue would know.

Bram would know.

He’s still looking at my mouth, and he’s still holding my hand.

“Is it you?” I manage.

His eyes flick away from my lips and I’m disappointed. I want him to be looking at them. But now he’s looking into my eyes. His are huge and brown and beautiful, and the first thing I can think of is a baby cow. Cute obviously. Wide and shiny and with such long, cute lashes framing them. God. I could look into them forever.

I wish I was sober so I could write down what I’m thinking and send it to Blue, but Id never be here if I was. I’m not brave when I’m sober.

I’m brave now.

Every second I’m feeling warmer and warmer, and my face is feeling redder and redder. Bram’s filling up my vision. He’s so close I can’t see the rest of the blurry room anymore.

“Who?”

“Is it you?” I repeat. “Blue?”

Bram’s baby cow eyes blink. He doesn’t say anything.

It’s not him.

The rope my heart tied around my tongue to climb my throat snaps. My heart falls a lot further than it climbed. It falls past my ribs and through my stomach and then it’s gone entirely.

I look away. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Sorry, I needa — I needa go and — ” I make a weak, aborted movement with the hand with the solo cup in it. I’m gonna go and cry. I’m gonna go to the bathroom and cry, and the mirror’s gonna yell at me again and gloat, and then I’m gonna find Leah and go home.

Then I’ll cry there, too.

I scrabble for the door handle behind me with my right hand, but I can’t open it. Bram hasn’t let go of my hand.

“Simon?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Are you Jacques?” He says it like a statement.

“Yeah.”

My heart’s back in my chest.

I get a blinding flash of white teeth as he smiles a grin so big it’s almost hard to look at. And I’m smiling too, and we keep doing just that even when I’ve leaned forwards and pressed my mouth against his.

There’s no rainbow and there’re no fireworks. It’s not the miraculous fucking epiphany my gay brain convinced me it would be.

But there’s something warm in chest, and it’s not from Bram’s hand resting on my waist. There’s something solid about this. Reliable. Dependable. It’s not wild like in the movies, the kiss is just soft and there and _happening._

It’s really happening.

It’s a closed mouth eighth-grader kiss that I narrowly avoided having with Jackie. Completely _lame,_ I know, but I can’t help but sigh against his mouth anyway.

And then his hand’s in my hair, the other presses into my hip and I drag him against me and it’s _exactly_ how a kiss looks in the movies. Except not really. Our noses bump together and it’s messy, actually, really sloppy. I’m off my face. He’s off his face.We’re sharing our fucking faces right now. Bram doesn’t taste like vodka and orange soda, he tastes like beer. Which I would normally hate, but somehow it’s okay when it’s from his mouth.

I’m kissing Bram Greenfeld.

I’m kissing Cute Bram Greenfeld in his bedroom, at his house, with his tongue in my mouth and one hand in my hair and the other pressing into my waist where my shirt’s come up.

I’m making out with Blue.

I’m making out with Obama.

This is too much for me.

I break away as I start to laugh, harder and much longer than before. Bram looks confused. This just makes me laugh even harder, so hard I can’t breathe and I think I black out a little ‘cause the next thing I’m aware of is we’re sitting on his bed and my forehead is pressed into his shoulder and I’m still shaking with laughter.

“I’m glad it’s you,” I mumble into his shirt. He kisses the side of my neck, and I black out again.

“Me too.” His arms are wrapped around me, and mine around him.

There’s stuff to talk about, but this isn’t the time and place. There’ll be countless time to talk later.

I’m too happy right now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> okay, Love, Simon actually KILLED me. I actually died. I've never felt so good leaving a movie. I can't believe romance is real.
> 
> And honestly, if Bram was drunk enough to make out with a girl dressed as a minion, he was drunk enough to make out with Simon. Y'know, someone he had a crush on.


End file.
